


fall back down (to where you're from)

by heartunsettledsoul



Series: Forgotten Moments [23]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Post 3x22, just a little ficlet for my feels, might turn into something bigger later, missing moment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-03-06 13:29:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18852037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartunsettledsoul/pseuds/heartunsettledsoul
Summary: At some point, some of the chaos calms down. The ambulances and sheriff department cars leave, the looky-loos dwindle, and then it's just the two of them in a mess of dirt, blood, and silk.or, to quote my 3x21 liveblog post: it's deeply unfair that the first star wars reference we got in this show was not “i love you”/”i know” between jug & betty in a time of immense danger





	1. Chapter 1

 

 _Run fast as you can_  
_No one has to understand_  
_Fly high across the sky from here to kingdom come  
_ _Fall back down to where you're from_

“Kingdom Come,” The Civil Wars

 

* * *

 

After they all fall to the ground in a relieved hug, the weight of the previous hours starts to sink in. It’s not until they’re all in the parking lot of the former Sisters of Quiet Mercy, where every single member of the town seems to have reconvened, that reality catches up with them. Adrenaline fades from each of their bodies; Archie clutches at his ribs and limps over to where Mary is wrapping Veronica in blankets as she sits for an IV to flush out the poison; Jughead's throat burns with bruises from Chic's hands, his split lip opens wider with every word he mutters to his dad, and there's a good chance his thumb is broken from throwing shit punches; and Betty is—well, Jughead isn't sure how Betty is.

 

She's still slumped on the ground, hooked up to her own emergency IV, in a dress he thinks she'd look stunning in under different circumstances, like one she might have worn to prom if they hadn’t hijacked the theme. Mud-soaked, covered in grime, and still endlessly beautiful. But the bleak reality settles over her like dust on wreckage and Betty is left staring at her own shaking hands like she’s not really seeing them. They're slicked with blood that isn't hers. It's both a relief and a horror to realize.

 

They may have just spent their evening in a real life rendition of _The Most Dangerous Game_ and the town’s resident cult leader may have pulled a Jonestown, but at least his girlfriend isn’t self-harming.

 

(Even if she were, Jughead thinks, this might be the time to.)

 

"Betts," he calls softly, crouching next to her. "Let's get you home to clean up, okay?"

 

"I don't—I don't _have_ a home, Jug. Everything is gone, my family is gone. What am I supposed to do?" Her voice cracks on the final words, dissolving into a high-pitched whine that ebbs into tears.

 

His heart breaks for her, and Jughead has to swallow the stab of hurt that flashes through him that she doesn't count him in her family. But it's not about that, he knows. Betty knows she has a home and a family in him, in Veronica and Archie and Fred and Mary too, but that doesn't mean she can't mourn this loss. Her father, psychotic as he may have been, is dead. Her mother and sister have disappeared, potentially also dead. Her night was spent fighting for her own life.

 

Betty’s entire world has collapsed in on itself.

 

The sobs wrack her whole body and she huddles into his grasp, the shaking becoming so strong that even Jughead can feel his teeth clicking from the vibrations. He holds her because that's all he can think to do, running one hand gently up and down her spine and lacing the other through one of hers. "You're okay," he whispers into the crown of her head. "We've got you, you're okay."

 

Eventually, one of the EMTs places a warming blanket around both of them— _for shock_ , the young woman murmurs over Betty's shaking form—and Veronica comes over to hold Betty's other hand. They have a strange kinship, he and Veronica, bonded solely for their love of the girl between them, the one who's been through hell and back in the name of her own loved ones. Been through hell and back for both of them.

 

Betty Cooper fights for them, and tonight has only reinforced that they each would die for Betty Cooper.

 

It's foreign, to feel this warmly toward Veronica Lodge, after Jughead has spent so much time hating everything she's done and that she stands for. When Archie comes to Veronica's side once more, trying to guide her toward Mary for a ride home, she looks questioningly at him. _Are you good to take care of her,_ she mouths. Normally Jughead might be offended; not today, not after all of this.

 

He nods and Veronica tells Betty she loves her and squeezes her in a quick hug that Betty barely seems to register.

 

At some point, some of the chaos calms down. The ambulances and sheriff department cars leave, the looky-loos dwindle, and then it's just the two of them in a mess of dirt, blood, and silk. Betty still trembles slightly, but she's so close to sleep that her body is beginning to reach a twisted sort of calm. Above them, FP ducks his chin to Jughead. "Ready to get her home?"

 

Ignoring the pain radiating from every part of his body, Jughead stoops to lift Betty in his arms. Bridal style, his lizard brain supplies. One day she'll be in a dress like this, white and sparkling, and their whole found family will, for once, be together for a happy occasion.

 

His heart aches. "I love you," he tells her, unsure if she's even awake to hear him, but desperate to make it known to her and to the world at large. It's the life raft he's clinging to.

 

He's answered with a sleepy mumble. "Mhm, I know, Jug."

 

He slides them into the back seat of FP's cruiser and the rumble of the motor lulls them both sleep as they ride back to Elm Street, starting anew once again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plot twist; I had more feelings.

_Run, run, run away_  
_Buy yourself another day_  
_A cold wind's whispering secrets in your ear_  
_So low only you can hear_

* * *

 

 

In the days following Penelope’s Agatha Christie-esque evening from hell and the Farm’s disappearance, living with Betty almost feels like living with a ghost. She’s quiet, constantly lost in thought; she’ll walk into a room and pause, blinking in confusion as though she’s forgotten what she came there for; has left the stove burners on for the entire of a sitdown meal; Jughead has to repeat her name at least twice before her eyes slide into focus and she answers a question or returns an _I love you._ For the first time in his life, Jughead is incapable of getting a read on her. He can’t bring himself to press the matter, knowing that if they’ve been put through the wringer, there isn’t even an adequate phrase for what Betty has been through. 

 

The motions are all there: she still gets up each morning to get dressed and do up her ponytail, not a fly-away in sight, drinks her orange juice and coffee and sits on the couch with Jughead while he channel hops half-heartedly, and doesn’t even argue when he leaves the channel on a travel show he knows she hates the host of. Betty even goes next door to take Vegas for the walks that Archie can’t do until he’s cleared from bedrest and chirps her “I’m fine!” to Fred, Archie, and Veronica’s narrowed eyes, but it’s the shiny veneer of the Cooper smile that has Jughead pacing constantly and googling the symptoms of a catatonic state. 

 

From over his shoulder on one such occasion, JB snorts. “Jug, catatonic means she’s literally frozen and not doing anything, not even talking.” His little sister gestures to the kitchen to where Betty is making tea and flipping through a magazine. “She looks fine, all things considered.” 

 

Frustrated, Jughead looks over to FP, who knows Betty well enough at this point, who also should _see_ that something isn’t right, but his dad merely shrugs. “She’s got a point, boy. ‘Sides, you’re all still dealing with that nightmare, it makes sense that Betty is shaken up.” 

 

Jughead could scream. ‘Shaken up’is one thing; this Stepford-level politeness and going through the motions like an automaton is another. It’s different from the front Betty put up for their entire adolescence, when she built up a wall so high that Jughead barely scrambled over it. Alice isn’t demanding higher grades and Weatherbee isn’t giving her more tutoring assignments. Jughead could always see the cracks in that facade, whether in the clench of her fists or the glimmer of defeat in her eyes, and he feels the wrongness of this all deep in his bones.  

 

This is—well, it’s _him._

 

Betty hasn’t pretended with him in a long time and it guts him to feel like they’ve taken steps backward, that maybe Betty doesn’t trust him like that anymore. They’ve seen the worst of each other, bloodied and bruised and broken, and have sworn to ride it all out through thick and thin. Being pushed away is a taste of Jughead’s own worst medicine. 

 

Betty may fall asleep beside him, but with a perfunctory goodnight kiss and her back to him as she rolls over to the other side of the mattress, she feels miles away.  

 

 

The morning of the eighth day with ghost-Betty, after another night staring at the ceiling in misery and wishing he could hold his girlfriend without her shying away, Jughead decides to push things into a standoff. 

 

Aside from his genuine worry for her well-being, he is frustrated. When they went down this road before, she raised holy hell at him for pushing her away and Jughead will be damned if he doesn’t do the same. If Betty refuses to open up to him of her own volition, he reckons that the only way to spark some sign of life is to back her into a corner. It may— _will_ —end with Jughead taking a verbal beating, but it will be worth it if Betty shows any emotion beside taciturn agreement. 

 

Since that night, he’s been getting up to shower and give Betty space first thing in the morning, but today he lingers in bed texting with Archie, then Toni, plays a few rounds of Scrabble, watches a livestream of rescued bunnies for fifteen minutes. Betty shifts around next to him, clearly awake and hyper-aware of his continued presence in bed. He rubs her shoulder and rests his thumb in the dip between her neck and collarbone, “G’morning, Betts.” 

 

For a brief moment, he feels her relax under his touch but it’s gone as quickly as it came. “I need to take a shower,” she says, pushing up to her elbows and making to exit the blankets. 

 

“No,” Jughead whines, amping up his petulance but finding that he really doesn’t want her to leave him alone in the bed. He _misses_ her, misses her touch and her smiles that reach all the way to her eyes, misses lazy, early morning makeouts and her confessions of fear and love and passing annoyances. He misses everything that isn’t this confusing, empty version of his girlfriend. His plea turns genuine as he gently pulls her back down, drawing her into his embrace and pressing his lips whisper soft on the back of her neck. “Stay in bed with me?” 

 

There is no falter before her next insistence than she needs to shower and it feels a little like a punch to the gut, even worse than the ones Chic laid into him the week before. He has half a mind to ask if he can join her, but doesn’t think he could take the hot knife of rejection from her right now. 

 

He lets her go reluctantly and stares at the ceiling until he hears the water turn on, and then eventually shut off. Not being able to read Betty has him feeling powerless, unable to do the one thing he’s ever been any good at—taking care of her.  

 

Instead he digs around for a fresh clothes, taking in the mess that the room— _their room,_  he reminds himself with a giddy warmth in his chest—has become. All the furniture is still Betty’s since she and Alice hadn’t gotten that far before the Joneses moved in and Jughead insisted she stay, but her belongings are still haphazard, leftover from angry, unfinished packing. His only contributions to the living situation are his beat-up duffel bags of clothes and a rickety chest of drawers from the trailer. 

 

(The entire house has the air of squatters taking advantage of an empty mansion—which they _are_ , despite the supposedly legal steps Gladys had taken to secure the home for them. All of the Cooper items are cleared out, likely purchased by true crime junkies off Ebay, but the Joneses had nothing to their name to bring inside. A classic Gladys move to make a grand gesture without thinking through all the elements needed to reach the unreachable big picture. 

 

FP at least bought a secondhand kitchen table for them to still eat shitty pizza at, and a bedroom set for Jellybean’s room. Jughead can only hope whatever vibes remain in that room from one sister of questionable sanity don’t rub off on his own.) 

 

Jughead rifles through a bag in search of something clean, or at the very least not covered in blood. There’s still a sizeable pile of clothing in the laundry room that robo-Betty has been soaking in salt on and off to reduce bloodstains. He’s only in his sweats, having thrown his shirt into a corner before realizing he had none to change into, and a sharp gasp alerts him to Betty’s re-entry to the room. 

 

“ _Juggie_ ,” Betty swears, rushing over to him. He’s confused until she reaches out to his side with a shaking hand, pruned pads of her fingers ghosting over the angry bruising on his ribs. 

 

He idly remembers that Betty has been so distant with him that they haven’t even seen each other partially dressed, let alone been intimate, since before everything happened. It’s not that bad, all things considered. Chic only landed a few good hits and Jughead has been worse. It is a far cry from what he looked like after Penny’s beatdown the prior year, though he knows that is the last thing he should be mentioning right now.

 

Betty is the most undressed he’s seen her, too, towel clutched around her but slipping in her haste to touch him. The damp terry-cloth exposes the soft curve of her breasts and Jughead is too distracted by beads of water running down from her hair in rivulets and disappearing to hidden territory he’s so desperate to explore. 

 

In that moment, the rush of want in his veins is not just hormones. Jughead _needs_ her, craves her touch to remind them both that they’ve survived. 

 

She must be following a similar train of thought, her trembling fingers growing more sure as she lets the towel go and slides both hands across his chest. With careful motions, she traces the outlines of his broken and bruised ribs, running her hands over mottled skin until one palm covers his heart and Jughead feels his pulse steady under her touch. 

 

Resolutely watching her face, he waits for any inclination that she’s about to retreat back into herself. Jughead suppresses a moan when she gnaws on her bottom lip and finally meets his gaze. An imperceptible nod gives him his permission and he lets his eyes track the droplets from the ends of her hair down to her nipples, now sharp in the cold air, across her belly, and running off her thighs. 

 

She’s a masterpiece, the epitome of bent but not broken, and he wants to worship every inch of her until he’s certain she knows how in awe of her he is—how proud he is to know and love her, how proud _she_ should be to still be standing among all this wreckage.  

 

Betty is the one to finally, finally close the distance between them, and she surges forward to capture his lips with her own. Her breath is hot in his mouth when he grips her hips tightly enough to bruise, not wanting another millimeter of space keeping her away from him. Gently, he steers them toward the bed, walking backwards while he basks in the immediate warmth of skin on skin and her hands cradling his face. 

 

They fall back with a light bounce and Jughead groans into her mouth with pain at the tenderness of his bruises. He expects her to wrench away at the evidence of his being so shattered but her hands are too busy shoving his pants down and grasping for him. He rocks into her touch and presses sloppy kisses down her neck until he can bite into the soft skin on the underside of her breast. The resulting whimper vibrates against his stomach, spurring him forward until he can flip them over, Betty’s back pressed into the soft blankets and her hands pushing him down, down, down. 

 

He nips at the crease of her thigh and dodges the involuntary flinch at the sensation. “Jug,” she whines, and he obliges. With one solid lick against her heat, she arches off the bed, nearly clocking him again and Jughead has to put some muscle into pressing her hips back down. Restraining her, even this small amount, makes his cock twitch impatiently and he has to grind against the nothingness of the bed to get relief. 

 

It’s all a blur of her hands yanking his hair and him sucking hard on her clit and the sharp gasp of pain when she comes so hard she kicks him in the chest. 

 

“I hurt you,” Betty breathes out, her eyes hazy in pleasure but her voice small and fearful. 

 

It hurts like a bitch, he won’t lie, but he can see the precipice of the cliff she is so close to tipping over; thinking that her life and her choices are always going to end up hurting who she loves. Betty, in her innate selflessness, only admitted this fear to him in the quiet blackness of the night of their reunion the previous year and he vowed to never make her feel that way again. Not if he can help it. 

 

He wants to punch someone; run into the woods and strangle Penelope Blossom, kill Chic with his bare hands, bring Hal Cooper back to life to shoot him himself, hunt down Alice and beat her with the reality of abandoning her daughter. Jughead has known this all along, that he would go to the ends of the earth for Betty. Seeing her hurt makes him wild with anger. Nearly feral.

 

This side of him isn’t the one she needs to see right now—or ever, if he can help it. 

 

Twisting his grimace of pain into a smile, he winks at Betty from where he’s still laying between her legs, tempted to bite her thigh like he knows she likes and make her come over and over until she can’t breathe.

 

“Come kiss it better,” he says and she flushes, eyes flashing. Jughead crawls up her body to kiss her full on the mouth, mixing the taste of her with the chapstick on her lips. 

 

Both her hands clench his shoulders to hold him close, so close he has to wiggle out of her grasp a little in order to maneuver his way inside her. She gasps again with each thrust, the sound so pretty that he wants to play it on a loop for the rest of his life. At some point, they flip over again, Betty lifting and dropping over his cock in movements worthy of a symphony. Maybe one day he’ll write her one, an overwrought ode to everything she makes him feel.  

 

They move together through the pain, both physical and emotional, and Betty cries her _I love you’s_ into his ear while he whispers it into the skin of her neck. 

 

When they’re spent, sprawled across the sheets now messy with their sweat and come, Jughead rolls over to look at her. She props her head up with an elbow and rubs her thumb across his bottom lip. She pulls it away and he chases it playfully, biting at the air and relishing in her giggle. This time when he tugs her into his arms, she’s pliant. Betty nuzzles closer to him and her breathing slows into a gentle rhythm that tell him she has fallen back to sleep. 

 

Nothing feels resolved, nothing has truly changed, but Jughead feels that their axis is righted one degree more with each moment they hold onto each other. 

.

.

.

_fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an eternal thank you to my liv-twin and beta-extraordinaire, iconicponytail. 
> 
> leave some love below if you feel so inclined.

**Author's Note:**

> I have approximately 8000 feelings about the finale and no idea where to even BEGIN processing


End file.
